The Tyrant's Tomb (The Trials of Apollo, #4)(89)

“Charge,” I said miserably.

I jogged off across the valley.





Such a deal for you

Two-for-one single combat

Kill us both for free!

THE MOST EMBARRASSING THING? As I wheezed and huffed up the hill, I found myself humming “Ride of the Valkyries.” Curse you, Richard Wagner. Curse you, Apocalypse Now.

By the time I reached the summit, I was dizzy and drenched in sweat. I took in the scene below and decided my presence would mean nothing. I was too late.

The hills were a scarred wasteland of trenches, shattered armor, and broken war machines. A hundred yards down Highway 24, the emperors’ troops had formed up in columns. Instead of thousands, there were now a few hundred: a combination of Germanus bodyguards, Khromandae, pandai, and other humanoid tribes. One small mercy: no myrmekes remained. Frank’s strategy of targeting the giant ants had apparently worked.

At the entrance to the Caldecott Tunnel, directly beneath me, waited the remnants of the Twelfth Legion. A dozen ragged demigods formed a shield wall across the inbound lanes. A young woman I didn’t recognize held the legion standard, which could only mean that Jacob had either been killed or gravely wounded. The overheated gold eagle smoked so badly I couldn’t make out its form. It wouldn’t be zapping any more enemies today.

Hannibal the elephant stood with the troops in his Kevlar armor, his trunk and legs bleeding from dozens of cuts. In front of the line towered an eight-foot-tall Kodiak bear—Frank Zhang, I assumed. Three arrows bristled in his shoulder, but his claws were out and ready for more battle.

My heart twisted. Perhaps, as a large bear, Frank could survive with a few arrows stuck in him. But what would happen when he tried to turn human again?

As for the other survivors…I simply couldn’t believe they were all that remained of three cohorts. Maybe the missing ones were wounded rather than dead. Perhaps I should’ve taken comfort in the possibility that, for every legionnaire who had fallen, hundreds of enemies had been destroyed. But they looked so tragic, so hopelessly outnumbered guarding the entrance to Camp Jupiter….

I lifted my gaze beyond the highway, out to the bay, and lost all hope. The emperors’ fleet was still in position—a string of floating white palaces ready to rain destruction upon us, then host a massive victory celebration.

Even if we somehow managed to destroy all the enemies remaining on Highway 24, those yachts were beyond our reach. Whatever Lavinia had been planning, she had apparently failed. With a single order, the emperors could lay waste to the entire camp.

The clop of hooves and rattle of wheels drew my attention back to the enemy lines. Their columns parted. The emperors themselves came out to parley, standing side-by-side in a golden chariot.

Commodus and Caligula looked like they’d had a competition to pick the gaudiest armor, and both of them had lost. They were clad head to toe in Imperial gold: greaves, kilts, breastplates, gloves, helmets, all with elaborate gorgon and Fury designs, encrusted with precious gems. Their faceplates were fashioned like grimacing demons. I could only tell the two emperors apart because Commodus was taller and broader in the shoulders.

Pulling the chariot were two white horses…No. Not horses. Their backs carried long, ugly scars on either side of their spines. Their withers were scored with lash marks. Their handlers/torturers walked beside them, gripping their reins and keeping cattle prods ready in case the beasts got any ideas.

Oh, gods…

I fell to my knees and retched. Of all the horrors I had seen, this struck me as the worst of all. Those once-beautiful steeds were pegasi. What kind of monster would cut off the wings of a pegasus?

The emperors obviously wanted to send a message: they intended to dominate the world at any cost. They would stop at nothing. They would mutilate and maim. They would waste and destroy. Nothing was sacred except their own power.

I rose unsteadily. My hopelessness turned into boiling anger.

I howled, “NO!”

My cry echoed through the ravine. The emperors’ retinue clattered to a stop. Hundreds of faces turned upward, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. I clambered down the hill, lost my footing, somersaulted, banged into a tree, staggered to my feet, and kept going.

No one tried to shoot me. No one yelled, Hooray, we’re saved! Frank’s defenders and the emperors’ troops simply watched, dumbstruck, as I made my way downhill—a single beat-up teenager in tattered clothes and mud-caked shoes, with a ukulele and a bow on my back. It was, I suspected, the least impressive arrival of reinforcements in history.

At last I reached the legionnaires on the highway.

Caligula studied me from across fifty feet of asphalt. He burst out laughing.

Hesitantly, his troops followed his example—except for the Germani, who rarely laughed.

Commodus shifted in his golden armor. “Excuse me, could someone caption this scene for me? What’s going on?”

Only then did I realize Commodus’s eyesight had not recovered as well as he’d hoped. Probably, I thought with bitter satisfaction, my blinding flash of divine radiance at the Waystation had left him able to see a little bit in full daylight, but not at all at night. A small blessing, if I could figure out how to use it.

“I wish I could describe it,” Caligula said dryly. “The mighty god Apollo has come to the rescue, and he’s never looked better.”

“That was sarcasm?” Commodus asked. “Does he look horrible?”